


The fear has gripped me but here I go

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Canon Compliant, Derek Needs To Use His Words, Derek is a Good Boyfriend, Established Relationship, First Kiss, In a daydream, Kinda, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romantic Derek, Rough Sex, Stiles Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7551136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why are you with me?"  Stiles asks one day when they're sitting together on the couch, just the two of them, hanging out.  "Like, why did you agree to this."  He gestures between them.</p><p>"I love you."  Derek says simply, flipping to the next page in his book, not bothering to look up from the page, that's how sure he sounds.  He doesn't notice the stricken expression on Stiles' face.</p><p>Or the one where Stiles never claimed they were perfect for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The fear has gripped me but here I go

**Author's Note:**

> This was heavily inspired by [this](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/147398890192/sappheau-no-other-person-on-this-planet-was) post over on Tumblr.  
> I haven't written anything even remotely canon compliant since November, so this is really weird for me... Hope you guys enjoy!

The first time Stiles kisses Derek, he does it to shut him up.

They just dispatched a pack of ghouls at the local cemetery, and they're both running on nothing but fumes at that point.  Bone tired and weary.  Stiles stands in the bathroom, his bloodied shirt lying in a heap beside the tub.  It's not his blood on the shirt, but he still has to burn it, just in case someone decides to dig around in the sheriff's garbage.  Can't have the snoopy neighbours asking difficult questions.

Medical supplies lie scattered on the tub's edge as Stiles reaches around his body with a cotton pad, attempting to disinfect a particularly large scratch at his back.  But every time he moves, it pulls, and stings more.  Stiles tries not to think about where the ghoul's claws were before they were in him, but considering he already puked up the burger he ate for lunch, there's no point in trying to hold nothing down.

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and jumps, swearing.  "Fuck, you startled me."  Derek leans against the open bathroom door, arms folded over his chest.  He's still covered in dirt and god-knows-what, but at least all his wounds have healed.  Unlike Stiles'.

"What do you want?"  Stiles asks.

Derek walks to the sink and washes his hands thoroughly, cleaning under his fingernails, soaping and lathering for exactly fifteen seconds—Stiles counts—before drying them on a fluffy pink towel.  His hands stand out in sharp contrast to the rest of him.  It's like there's a line at the wrists, where he never bothered to wash off the dirt.  _His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean and you're the best thing that he's ever seen._  Stiles feels like giggling when the song lyrics come to mind.  It's probably the pain meds.

Derek reaches for the near empty bottle of peroxide and the cotton pad.  He drenches the pad in the liquid, absolutely soaking it, so the peroxide drips through his fingers, splashing onto the tile.  _Drip, drip, drip_. 

Derek's hands are warm as they run over his back, fingers soft like a baby, bumping over Stiles' vertebrae.  Counting.  Stiles doesn't feel pain when the pad is pressed into the wound.  There's only a minty iciness, spread out from where Derek's touching him, swiping methodically, cleaning the blood and dirt from the cut. 

Stiles rolls his sore shoulders and groans. 

Derek doesn't say a word of comfort as he works, but Stiles expects no less.  Derek's not one for mincing words.  His actions speak for themselves.  The comfort comes from the touch of Derek's hands, how soft they feel, stroking over Stiles' skin.  How he gently presses the bandage, sealing the wound shut.  How his hand move up Stiles' back, thumbs digging into the vulnerable skin at his neck, working out the knots.  And then, more minty iciness.

Hasta la vista morning after soreness.

Derek still doesn't say anything when Stiles turns around in his arms.  When Stiles presses a hand over his chest, pushing him back until he steps into the tub.  Not even when Stiles follows him after, slipping his sweatpants off his hips.  When Stiles reaches for Derek to tug his shirt over his head, and unbuttons his pants, he still says nothing.  It's only when they're standing naked together in the tub and Stiles reaches for the shower handle, that Derek breaks his silence.

"You'll wet your bandage." 

Stiles quiets him with his mouth.

***

Derek fucks like he has nowhere else to be.

He's goes slow, rolling his hips, so he slips in and out of Stiles like he's a love song.  Each and every roll is sweet.  Saccharine, even.  Kisses pressed to Stiles' neck, nose tucked behind an ear as he grips Stiles tight, pulls him close like he wants to dissolve into his body and never leave.  Derek's sex is personal, loving and romantic.  He treats Stiles like he's all he ever wants, all he could ever need.  Pulling Stiles' legs around his waist until their stomachs press together and Stiles can feel the beat of Derek's heart resonate in his bones.

It isn't fucking at all.

Derek whispers sweet nothings in Stiles' ear, murmurs about how good Stiles feels, how beautiful he is lying in the moonlight, _can't you see, baby?  god, Stiles, can't you fucking see?  how much I-"_

Derek tangles his hand in Stiles' hair, pets his face like he's precious.  Stares into his eyes like he glimpses the universe in them.  Like Stiles is everything he's ever wanted.  It's too much. 

Stiles feels the moisture build in his eyes until it reaches the breaking point, rushing over the levee, and breaking free.  Derek stops.  He pulls out impossibly gentle, worry dipping his brow.  Derek gathers him closer, cupping his head in soft hands, presses apologetic kisses to the tears raining down his cheeks.  Pressing kisses into the storm of Stiles' emotions.

"I'm sorry."  Derek apologizes, and Stiles thinks, _damn right, you better be_. 

He asked Derek to fuck him, not make love to him.

***

Stiles is selfish.

Not on purpose, or anything like that.  He doesn't go around eating the last doughnut in the box just because he can.  He's selfish, because that's just the way he is.  He's driving back from lacrosse practice one day and has to pull over to the side of the road because it suddenly hits him. 

Scott had wanted Stiles to come over and help at Deaton's.  Stiles had said he was busy.  Erica had asked for the apple on his tray at lunch, but Stiles denied her and half-heartedly ate it instead.  Stiles insisted that Isaac tend the goal while he threw the balls, even though Isaac didn't want to. 

Stiles brushed his friends off like they don't mean anything to him, and he took him a whole day to realize it.

When he gets home, his dad asks if he wants to watch the game together, but Stiles calls out a negative, and treads up the stairs to collapse on his bed.  To _ponder_ on his selfishness. His dad concedes with a sigh, like he already knew Stiles' answer. 

Derek comes over later when his dad's at work and asks if he wants to get dinner and maybe catch a movie.  Stiles says he'd rather fuck Derek's brains out.  To work off the stress of the day.  Derek looks disappointed, but he doesn't say a word of protest.  He gives Stiles what he desires, like he always does.

He's quiet when they're together this time.  Sombre and silent. 

***

Derek doesn't know how to ask for what he wants.

Derek picks Stiles up from school sometimes.  Ever the dutiful boyfriend, leaning against his cock rock car, shades over his eyes, like every teenage girl's sex dream come true.  Stiles walks up to him and slips his hands in Derek's back pockets, leaning in for a kiss.  He licks into Derek's mouth and tastes the sweetness of lemonade. 

The first time Stiles had kissed Derek like this—like it was a prelude to something more—he tasted like bubblegum.  Not the minty type that Stiles always assumed Derek would like.  No, it had been full on pink, sugary bubblegum.  The stuff Stiles used to chew when he was little, and would try to shove as many pieces as he could into his mouth at once.  Derek always tastes like something sweet, but Stiles has never caught him actually eating candy.

Stiles says he wants to go to the library and Derek takes him there.  It's only when he's climbing out of the car that he gets a glimpse of the back seat.  A large cooler sits on top of a red and white checked picnic blanket.  It looks out of place in the interior of the Camaro, weirdly domestic in a way that Derek isn't in public.

Stiles shuts the door and watches the Camaro peel away.  He walks into the library and reassures himself that if Derek wanted to go on a picnic with him, he would have said something.

***

Derek is selfless to a fault.

Isaac fights an omega, claws swiping and teeth bared.  The pack is in the middle of the preserve after an afternoon of tracking a wolf that's been mauling hikers.  Stiles stands to the side, hiding behind Allison, like always, and so gets an unobstructed view of Isaac stumbling, losing his footing.  The omega takes that as cue to step forward and bury his claws in Isaac.  Except they don't make it.  Derek's suddenly there, and the omegas claws are _in_ him.  Derek pants, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth as he reaches up and calmly breaks the omega's neck.

Later, the two of them sit in the Jeep.  Derek's bloodied shirt tossed to the floorboard, wounds given away to clear skin.  Stiles' fingers drum on the steering wheel, so many emotions running through him—worry, fear, frustration.  He can feel Derek's gaze digging into the side of his head, and he knows exactly what his expression will be when Stiles finally turns to look at him.

Lo and behold, it's calm.  Stiles isn't at all surprised.  Derek's always so fucking calm, always throwing himself into harm's way unnecessarily, like an asshole.  

"That wasn't an alpha,"  Stiles says, scrubbing a hand through his long hair.  He started growing it out once he discovered how much he enjoyed Derek pulling his hair in bed.  Derek only does it because Stiles asks him to, but fuck it if Stiles doesn't relish the sharp sting of pain.  Even if Derek presses apologetic kisses to the top of his head afterwards.

Derek nods, and says, "I know."

"You didn't need to jump in front of Isaac like that, you both heal at the same pace."

Derek shrugs.  "Probably."

"You're a fucking asshole."  Stiles points out helpfully.

"Yeah,  I am."

No, he isn't.  Stiles turns away with pursed lips, looking out the side window.  The sun sets bloody and raw over the trees, casting the preserve in shadows.  The chirping of cicadas is deafening in the twilight and he wants to bang his head on the console over and over again until his skull bursts open and he never again has to deal with Derek's martyr complex.  Instead, Stiles digs his fingernails into his thighs and starts the Jeep.

***

"Why are you with me?"  Stiles asks one day when they're sitting together on the couch, hanging out.  Just two normal boyfriends with their feet entangled, enjoying each other's company.  "Like, why did you agree to this."  Stiles gestures between the two of them.

"I love you."  Derek says simply and surely, flipping to the next page in his book, not bothering to look up from the page, that's how sure he sounds. 

 _Love.  That isn't a fucking reason, that's a symptom_. 

Derek doesn't notice the stricken expression on Stiles' face.  If he had, he would have known what was coming next.

"I don't want to be with you anymore,"  Stiles says abruptly.

_I kissed him first._

Derek's hand falls from the page and he looks up, face shuttered, eyes wide in surprise as he stares at Stiles, nothing less than heartbreak in his gaze.

Stiles swallows down his need to take back what he just said _.  He's only mine because I wanted him_.

"Okay,"  Derek relents, quietly.

 _He's always been so goddamned selfless_.  _He doesn't really love me_. 

***

Stiles used to fantasize about Derek when he was sixteen and still coming to terms with his bisexuality.

He would close his eyes and slip his hand beneath his boxers, concentrating so hard on picturing it right.  Because the glorious sex god Derek Hale deserved someone to fantasize about him _right_.

Derek would climb into his window at night, sliding up to Stiles as he would sit in his computer chair, pen in mouth.  He would pull Stiles up by his lapels and press him against the door, yelling about something—what Derek was angry about would change from session to session.  It didn't matter in the scheme of things.  All that mattered was that Derek would eventually lower the finger he had pointed right at Stiles.  His eyes would flare open in lust as he watched Stiles lick his lips.

But he wouldn't kiss him yet.  No, he would first sniff at Stiles' neck, catching his scent, smelling the lust that pours off Stiles whenever he's in Derek's presence.  Only then would he kiss Stiles, open-mouthed and filthy, like he wants to eat him whole and spit him out after.

He would press his hips against Stiles', grinding hard, letting Stiles hump his leg in return, and just before Stiles would come he would pull away with a smirk.  Leaving Stiles to collapse against the door, dishevelled and wanting.  He would grab Stiles and throw him bodily onto the bed, letting him bounce up and down a few times before climbing on after, movements sly and cat-like.

Derek would manhandle Stiles onto his front and press his head into the pillow so he has to turn it to the side, or risk suffocating.  Derek wouldn't care, even as he let his claws sharpen.  He would run them over Stiles' clothes, shredding them to ribbons, scratching his skin in the process.  But Derek wouldn't apologize.  He would press his body all along Stiles' back, rubbing his dick over Stiles' ass, harsh and cruel, pushing him down so he has to take it.  So he has to fucking lie still and just _take it_.

He would jerk Stiles up by the hips and rim him until he's sobbing, tears would stain his pillow, but Derek would never stop, he would keep going because that's what sixteen year old Stiles thought of Derek.  He thought that Derek would mount him from behind and give it to him hard and rough until he couldn't walk for the next week.

But in reality, Derek wasn't the one to initiate their first kiss.  Stiles was.  In reality, Derek stopped in the middle of sex when he saw Stiles was crying.  He pulled him closer and chased away his tears.  In reality, Derek never once fucked Stiles.  He only ever made love to him.

When Stiles was sixteen, he wanted a Derek that never existed, a fantasy that wasn't true.  Stiles at eighteen isn't that much different.

He's always been so goddamned selfish.

***

Contrary to popular belief—one fostered by the standard Hollywood rom-com—the weeks after the breakup are pretty much normal.  Summer's almost over, and Stiles has all his stuff packed up in the Jeep, driving down to his new dorm at Berkeley.  Months ago, he had requested a private room on his form, expecting Derek to end up spending all his free time there.  As it is, he now has an empty dorm, no boyfriend, and no pack—since most of them are attending the local community college, except for Lydia who would never settle for anything less than ivy league.

Stiles is... okay.  And the only reason he's okay is because he most definitely doesn't think about Derek.  The last few weeks have been empty, monotonous.  Exactly what Stiles needs.

He stays the night in his new dorm, staring up at the ceiling.  There's a water stain right above his head and Stiles suspects the moment he moves in, and the pipes get going again, it'll start dripping.  _Drip, drip, drip_ , like the sound of peroxide on bathroom tile.

Stiles closes his eyes.

***

Derek's waiting for him when Stiles opens his bedroom door.  He's sitting in Stiles' computer chair, hands folded in his lap as he faces the door, waiting patiently for Stiles.

"Derek,"  Stiles says, walking in and shutting the door behind him.  He tosses his keys on his shelf, then just stands around awkwardly, fingers twitching at his side.  Derek's in his space, and it's making him jumpy,  "Did you want something?"

"I want a lot of things, Stiles,"  Derek says, face unreadable.

"Okay...?"  Stiles trails off, shuffling forward to sit on the bed.  He pulls a pillow into his lap, putting up a small barrier between Derek and him.  As if it will protect him.

"I want lollipops, I constantly crave them."  Derek says abruptly, eyes narrowing in anger.  Stiles blinks.  This wasn't how he pictured Derek coming clean about his love of sweets.  "But also cotton candy, I love the way it melts on my tongue, dissolving into delicious sweetness."

"Um, good for you...?"  Derek raises his hand and Stiles clams up, letting him speak.

"I used to daydream about going to the fair with you.  You would hold my hand and feed me tufts of cotton candy, stealing sugary kisses while we would ride the ferris wheel." 

"Derek..."  Stiles says pained.  His heart feels like it's beating way too fast.  Derek has never opened up to him like this, never in the whole six months they were dating.

"I wanted to take you out into the preserve for picnics, setting up under the shade of the trees, I would share with you a pitcher of my mom's lemonade."  Derek closes his eyes like he's picturing what he's describing.  "I would push your hair out of your face, and we would talk about us, where we saw this going, our hopes and dreams for the future.  And then when the sun was setting, I would pull you on top of me, and we would make love all though the night."

Stiles swallows, his throat bobbing.  "But I never did those things with you,"  he says dumbly.

Derek scoffs, shaking his head.  "Stiles, I wanted all of that _months_ before you kissed me in the shower.  I wanted _you_ , for months."

"But-"

"Erica kissed me once, did you see me falling in love with her?"   Derek snaps, his mouth twisted in displeasure, glaring at Stiles.  "I am not as naive as you seem to think I am."  His voice rises.  "Just because I'm in love with you, doesn't mean that you can treat me like I'm not a person!"

"You _never_ talked to me, you didn't tell me this!"  Stiles spits, bitterly.  "You we always so quiet, I can't read your fucking mind, Derek!"

Derek tears his gaze away, running his hand through his hair, gripping at the strands.  "I'm not good with words."

"Dating you was like dating a _robot_.  You did what I asked and never even complained once.  It was awful!"  Derek flinches and Stiles bites his lip, saying more quietly,  "It felt like I was pressuring you into being with me."

"Didn't you hear me the first time?  I wanted you-"

"But you never told me that,"  Stiles insists, "You let me suffer under that misconception for months, like I was being selfish for wanting to be with you."

"I told you I loved you,"  Derek says, voice cracking awfully, "And then you left me."

"Because I didn't believe you.  Because why on earth would someone as beautiful as you—inside and out—would ever want someone as useless as me?"  Stiles blinks, dashing away the tears forming in his eyes.  "I asked you, do you remember?  Why we were together, and you told me you loved me, but you never told me why you felt that way.  You said it like you got used to me over time, and love was the natural conclusion to that."

"So?"

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times, before, "What do you mean by _so_?"

"Stiles, love isn't some magical force that happens the moment someone lays eyes on another.  Soulmates are bullshit, people don't just fall in love automatically.  It's a process."  Derek gets up from the chair, and moves to sit by Stiles' side.  He rests his hand on Stiles' thigh, the warmth seeping through the denim.  Stiles missed Derek's warmth.  "I got to know you over the past few years, and it slowly happened.  You ramble off on tangents.  You can never seem to keep your mouth shut.  You're so smart, but also so stupid.  You're a walking human disaster.  You have no brain to mouth filter.  You're so fucking beautiful it almost hurts.  There are so many reason why I fell in love with you, shall I go on?"

Stiles shakes his head.  "I got the gist of it."

"I'm not good with words, Stiles.  I spent weeks planning this speech in my head."  Derek scrubs a hand through his beard.  "It was impossible for me to tell you what you wanted to hear at that exact moment.  So I said the first three words that I knew would get the message across.  I knew if I said nothing you would just reach the wrong conclusion."  Derek lifts his hand and slowly trails a finger from Stiles' cheekbone to ear, looking at him earnestly.  "You have to be patient with me."

Stiles shifts nervously.  "I'm not very good at being patient."

"I'm not good at forming my thoughts into words, but I can damn well try, for _you_.  Will you do the same for me?"

Stiles takes a deep breath and he looks at Derek.  His eyes are so vulnerable and soft as he waits for him.  As he waits, like Stiles needs to learn how to. 

"Yeah, I will."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Alt-J's Breezeblocks.


End file.
